Jeffery Deaver - The burning wire

Yep, it was a good hidey-hole. And a nightmare to assault. There'd be a hundred good defensive positions.

Call in the troops? Not yet, Sachs thought. Every minute they delayed was a minute Galt could be finishing the last touches on his new weapon. And every ESU officer's footfall might destroy trace evidence.

"He could have it booby-trapped," Pulaski whispered in an unsteady voice, looking at the metal chain. "Maybe it's wired."

"No. He wouldn't risk somebody just touching it casually and getting a shock; they'd call the police right away." But, she continued, he could easily have something rigged to tell him of intruders' presence. So, sighing and with a grimace on her face, she looked up the street. "Can you climb that?"

"What?"

"The fence?"

"I guess I could. If I were chasing or being chased."

"Well, I can't, unless you give me a boost. Then you come after."

"All right."

They walked to where she could make out, through a crack in the fence, some thick bushes on the other side, which would both break their fall and give them some cover. She recalled that Galt was armed-and with a particularly powerful gun, the.45. She made sure her Glock holster was solidly clipped into her waistband and then nodded. Pulaski crouched down and laced his fingers together.

Mostly to put him at ease, she whispered gravely, "One thing to remember. It's important."

"What's that?" He looked into her eyes uneasily.

"I've gained a few pounds," said the tall policewoman. "Be careful of your back."

A smile. It didn't last long. But it was a smile nonetheless.

She winced from the pain in her leg as she stepped onto his hands, and twisted to face the wall.

Just because Galt hadn't electrified the chain didn't mean he hadn't rigged something on the other side. She saw in her mind's eye once more the holes in Luis Martin's flesh. Saw too the sooty floor of the elevator car yesterday, the quivering bodies of the hotel guests.

"No backup?" he whispered. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure. On three. One… Two… Three."

And up she went, Pulaski much stronger than she'd expected, launching her nearly six-foot frame straight up. Her palms caught the top and she lodged there, sitting momentarily. A glance at the school. No sign of anyone. Then a look downward, and she saw beneath her only the bush, nothing to burn her flesh with five-thousand-degree arc flashes, no metal wires or panels.

Sachs turned her back to the school, gripped the top of the fence and lowered herself as far as she could. Then, when she knew she'd have to let go, she let go.

She hit rolling, and the pain rattled through her knees and thighs. But she knew her malady of arthritis as intimately as Rhyme knew his bodily limitations and she understood this was merely a temporary protest. By the time she'd taken cover behind the thickest stand of shrub, gun drawn and looking for any presenting targets, the pain had diminished.

"Clear," she whispered through the fence.

There was a thump and a faint grunt and, like some kung-fu movie actor, Pulaski landed deftly and silently beside her. His weapon too appeared in his hand.

There was no way they could approach the front without being seen if Galt happened to look out. They'd go around to the back but Sachs needed to do one thing first. She scanned the grounds and, gesturing Pulaski to follow her, stayed behind the bushes and Dumpsters awaiting filling, heading to the right side of the school.

With Pulaski covering her, she moved fast to where two large rusting metal boxes were fitted to the brick. Both had peeling decals with the name Algonquin Consolidated on the side and a number to call in an emergency. She took from her pocket Sommers's current detector, turned it on and swept the unit over the boxes. The display showed zero.

Not surprising, since the place had been deserted for years, it seemed. But she was happy to see the confirmation.

"Look," Pulaski whispered, touching her arm.

Sachs gazed at where he was pointing, through a greasy window. It was dim and hard to make out anything inside clearly, but after a moment she could see the faint movement of a flashlight, she believed, slowly scanning. Possibly-the shadows were deceptive-she was looking at a man poring over a document. A map? A diagram of an electrical system he was going to turn into a deadly trap?

"He is here," Pulaski whispered excitedly.

She pulled the headset on and called Bo Haumann, the ESU head.

"What do you have, Detective? K."

"There's somebody here. I can't tell if it's Galt or not. He's in the middle part of the main building. Ron and I are going to flank him. What's your ETA? K."

"Eight, nine minutes. Silent roll-up, K."

"Good. We'll be in the back. Call me when you're ready for the takedown. We'll come in from behind."

"Roger, out."

She then called Rhyme and told him that they might have the perp. They'd go in as soon as ESU was on site.

"Look out for traps," Rhyme urged.

"There's no power. It's safe."

She disconnected the transmission and glanced at Pulaski. "Ready?"

He nodded.

Crouching, she moved quickly toward the back of the school, gripping her weapon tightly and thinking: Okay, Galt. Haven't got your juice to protect you here. You've got a gun, I've got a gun. Now, we're on my turf.

AS HE DISCONNECTED from Sachs, Rhyme felt another tickle of sweat. He finally had to resort to calling Thom and asking him to wipe it off. This was perhaps the hardest for Rhyme. Relying on somebody for the big tasks wasn't so bad: the range-of-motion exercises, bowel and bladder, the sitting-transfer maneuver to get him into the wheelchair or bed. The feeding.

It was the tiny needs that were the most infuriating… and embarrassing. Flicking away an insect, picking fuzz off your slacks.

Wiping away a rivulet of sweat.

The aide appeared and easily took care of the problem without a thought.

"Thank you," the criminalist said. Thom hesitated at the unexpected show of gratitude.

Rhyme turned back to the evidence boards, but in fact he wasn't thinking much of Galt. It was possible that Sachs and the ESU team were about to collar the crazed employee at the school in Chinatown.

No, what was occupying his overheated mind exclusively was the Watchmaker in Mexico City. Goddamn it, why wasn't Luna or Kathryn Dance or somebody calling to give him a blow-by-blow description of the takedown?

Maybe the Watchmaker had already planted the bomb in the office building and was using his own presence as a diversion. The satchel he carried might be filled with bricks. Why exactly was he hanging out in the office park like some goddamn tourist trying to figure out where to get a margarita? And could it be a different office altogether he was targeting?

Then Rhyme said, "Mel, I want to see where the takedown's happening. Google Earth… or whatever it's called. Pull it up for me. Mexico City."

"Sure."

"Avenue Bosque de Reforma… How often do they update the images?"

"I don't know. Probably every few months. It's not real time, though, I don't imagine."

"I don't care about that."

A few minutes later they were looking at a satellite image of the area: a curving road, Avenue Bosque de Reforma, with the office buildings separated by the park where the Watchmaker was sitting at that moment. Across the street was the Jamaican consulate, protected by a series of concrete barriers-the bomb blast shields-and a gate. Rodolfo Luna and his team would be on the other side of those. Behind them were official vehicles parked in front of the embassy itself.

He gasped as he stared at the barriers. To the left was a blast shield running perpendicular to the road. To the right were six others, parallel to it.